


When you say nothing at all

by Becassine



Series: Kissing our way into the future [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Foreplay, Gentle Kissing, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, Kissing, Love, M/M, Neck Kissing, Nudity, POV Bucky Barnes, Surprise Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:22:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27696221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Becassine/pseuds/Becassine
Summary: Sometimes the best conversations are never spoken aloud.aka Bucky remembers some of his & Steve's more memorable kisses throughout their years.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Kissing our way into the future [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2033794
Comments: 24
Kudos: 145





	When you say nothing at all

**Author's Note:**

> So I was inspired by two people to write this fic and it was a blink and you miss it type of thing. So [Dready](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreadlockholiday) was inspired by [Kalee60](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalee60) in her fic ‘Subliminal Advertising’ by this little line … “Content to just explore, play and get to know each other with soft conversations in between kisses.”
> 
> I got thinking about all those times when kisses _are_ conversations in themselves and so here we are. I hope you like where I went with it. 
> 
> And yes, the title is from a Ronan Keating song. I regret nothing.

_I’m here for you_

Bucky speaks more languages that he can remember ever learning but kissing, particularly kissing Steve, is something he’s always been fluent in. It’s a hot Sunday in July, when Steve walks past him and swoops down to drop a kiss into Bucky’s braided hair, when it occurs to him that they mean more than they are, that they’re a way for the two of them to communicate how they feel and that it’s been that way since they were young.

He doesn’t always feel like talking, even though it’s been five years since the snap. His therapist tells him that it’s fine to feel that way although he doesn’t much care what she says. As the world’s longest serving POW, he doesn’t think there’s anybody equipped to deal with the baggage he’s carrying but she at least tries. Bucky’s still surprised that anybody wants to try and help him after everything that’s happened. On days like these, he likes to laze in their brownstone, wriggling around until he’s comfortable in the spot that he likes on the couch. Today the sun shines in, bright and warm on his face through the bulletproof glass that they installed when they moved in. They have the A/C going - because Brooklyn in summer is _hot_ \- but the warmth makes him happy, makes him remember that he’s not in Hydra’s possession even when his brain is screaming otherwise and his eyes play tricks on him.

On these days Steve stays around the house more and neither of them comment on it. He’s not intrusive, simply _around_ whether it’s sketching, painting or reading a book. He makes sure that he’s noisier than he usually is so that Bucky knows where he is - he learned that lesson after Bucky nearly threw a knife at him when he padded in near silently - and also puts music on, some low jazz filling the room and sometimes distracting Bucky from all the noise in his head. 

When he’s in his head like this he sometimes wonders if he’s worth it. The loathsome self-doubt, the grisly memories playing like a Netflix queue in his head and the anxiety that he’ll remember something _worse_ that Steve won’t forgive him for… They overflow and spill out. Like an oil slick, viscous and toxic. Bucky knows it’s written all over his face, knows it as soon as Steve steps up the contact. It’s been a journey with touch, Bucky as liable to flee from it as find solace in it with most people, but never Steve. Then again, he thinks with a smile, Steve’s always been the exception to every rule.

_Don’t leave me_

The first kiss Bucky can remember giving Steve is when he is nine or ten, the two of them already firm friends. Bucky’s ma isn’t best pleased when he starts knocking about with the troublemaker in the neighbourhood, Steve already known for his ability to find a fight with a brick wall aged six. 

Tonight Steve’s fighting pneumonia.

It’s a fight Bucky isn’t sure he can win.

Steve is sicker than Bucky’s ever seen him and unusually quiet with it, in and out of consciousness as the hours pass. Despite the fever he’s as stark white as the bleached sheets beneath him and the grimace on his face is the only sign he’s giving that he’s in pain.

It’s his lungs that are the worst. Bucky can hear how laboured his breathing is without needing to put his ear to Steve’s chest. The wheeziness from Steve’s asthma is ever-present but the crackling sound is new, the sound wet and terrifying to Bucky. Sarah Rogers is heating water on the stove just a few steps away, having already shoved a covered brick into the bed to keep Steve warm.

Bucky stares down at his best friend, feels an overwhelming and aching sadness at the idea that Steve might not get better. His lip wobbles as he feels the urge to cry and he ducks his head instead, shuffles closer on the bed to Steve. 

It only takes a moment to act, dry lips landing clumsy on Steve’s sweaty forehead. He tells himself it’s to measure if he’s still hot, that Bucky’s hands are too sweaty and hot from his fisting them in his shirt to be able to tell the difference. Steve moves underneath him and Bucky freezes.

“Buck,” he mutters, furrowing his brow. “Buck.”

Bucky looks at Sarah who is watching them thoughtfully, brow furrowing just like Steve’s even as she smiles faintly at him. It’s the most sense Steve’s made in two days and it gives them hope. The two of them burst into action, a renewed determination to keep Steve alive.

_Later_

Bucky is vibrating out of his skin when they visit the planetarium. It’s 1935 and he’s eighteen to Steve’s seventeen. He’s been watching this building for years, read in the papers about the grand plans that the museum had in the twenties to build a planetarium and knows that they crumbled to nothing but brick dust in the early thirties like just about everything did. Those were hard winters. Bucky has read whatever he can get his hands on about the other planetariums, wishing occasionally that he and Steve had the money to go and visit the Adler in Chicago.

But it doesn’t matter now because they’re here. They walked all the way to the Hayden this evening, Bucky taking a moment to just _look_ at the red brick building with awe until Steve gave him a shove and reminded him that there’s more to look at inside.

And isn’t there just? Bucky’s eye is drawn again and again to the Zeiss projector, looking like something out of his space magazines. It’s shiny and alien and _big_ although he doesn’t know why he was expecting anything smaller. They’re alone sitting in the back row - the place isn’t packed on a Wednesday evening - and Steve’s head is tipped back as they look at the galaxy overhead.

Of course it isn’t long until Steve starts getting fidgety.

“Quit it,” he mutters to him, focusing in on Saturn and wishing he knew how to paint something so intricate. He doesn’t, he’s not the artist and whilst Steve _could_ they probably can’t afford all the colours they’d need to do it justice. 

Steve smirks. Bucky can see it out of the corner of his eye.

What he’s not expecting - not so publicly - is for Steve’s hand to rest on his thigh, even though it’s hidden under Bucky’s hat which is resting on his lap. Bucky jumps a little, gives Steve a look that clearly asks ‘what the fuck?’.

“What?” Steve asks, shrugging his shoulders innocently even as his fingers wriggle a bit higher. Bucky thinks it’s incredibly unfair for Steve to look like an angel with his baby blues and lashes longer than they have any right being. He never acts like one.

“Steve,” he murmurs, unable to help leaning into the contact even though his tone is chiding, resisting the urge to spread his thighs a little under his coat and let Steve’s long, nimble fingers do what he wants them to. “Not here. I ain’t getting kicked out of this place. Waited too damn long to get in here, pal.”

Steve chuckles and rests his fingers, giving the meat of Bucky’s thigh a quick squeeze before he removes his hand. “Sure, Buck,” he replies, giving the crowd a cursory glance before pressing a blink and you’d miss it kiss to Bucky’s cheek instead. Bucky flushes, feels himself going red but he can’t help matching Steve’s delighted smile with one of his own.

_I was scared_

Bucky is shivering in the forest, a little way away from the others, even as his insides lick hot with fire, wishing he had a coat to wrap around him. He doesn’t know what they injected him with in that laboratory, only that it hurts. He knows that he’s lucky to be alive when others weren’t so lucky and he doesn’t have any desire to be prodded at by more men in white coats even if they’re American white coats.

“Bucky.”

Steve’s standing there, those blue eyes of his burning and the intensity makes Bucky stumble to his feet, lean against the tree he’d had his back to. He doesn’t truly understand what’s happened and how Steve is suddenly nearly a foot taller and broader than he has any right being but Bucky doesn’t understand a lot right now. He’s seen a man rip off his _face_ to reveal a vermillion skull. 

It’s more unbelievable than anything he read in the pulps.

He feels numb to it.

He thinks he might still be in shock. 

“Christ, Buck-” Steve cuts himself off as he presses his lips against Bucky’s, those hands - big, bigger than they were - cradling Bucky’s face. The kiss is messy, their teeth clacking together, and there’s little finesse. Bucky surges up - _up_ \- against him, amazed that Steve is as solid as he is. He wonders if Steve’s spine is still curved, wonders if his freckles and beauty marks are still in the same place. Then Steve swipes his tongue against Bucky’s lower lip and he doesn’t wonder much at all, left hand clutching at Steve’s hair as he opens up to him.

He doesn’t tell Steve about the injections.

_I missed you_

It’s a long time before he kisses Steve again. The bank vault, the helicarriers, the time hiding out trying to parse out what was real from what was not. Bucky ran to keep Steve safe, keep himself safe. He ran because he wasn’t sure whether he should put himself down and he knew deep down that Steve would never allow him to do that.

Things got better. Not in a linear fashion because life is never that easy.

Wakanda. Goats. Strangely they translate to peace of mind.

Shuri becomes a part of his life and Bucky likes her, likes the way she reminds him of his younger sister Becca. She doesn’t pull her punches and she likes it when Bucky comes into the lab even if he can’t do much to help. Bucky loves space and science but what Shuri can do is mind-blowing and he peppers her with questions that she’s only too happy to answer as she moves around her lab, the two of them whiling away the hours.

Steve visits and is the same as he always has been. A clap of his hand on Bucky’s back, walking far too close with Bucky on his left side, tucking his nose into the crook of Bucky’s neck when they hug. It helps, somehow, to know that his friend isn’t scared of him. Bucky’s not sure that Steve’s wired right. He’s never been scared of half of what ought to.

When they start to get back to what they were, what Bucky remembers them being, he isn’t sure it’s a good idea. How can Captain America or Nomad or whatever else Steve wants to call himself this week get involved with the fugitive Winter Soldier? He tells Steve so and watches his face get pinched and angry.

“You should… There’s Sharon,” he points out, unable to look him in the eye. “You could have the life you’ve always wanted with her, Steve.”

“ _What_ life?” Steve bites back instantly, sounding irritated. “What life do you think I’ve always wanted?”

“The picket fence and all that,” Bucky feels his temper flare. “Don’t tell me that you and Peggy wouldn’t have ended up married with two kids and a dog if things hadn’t happened the way they did.” 

Steve shakes his head vehemently, longer hair flopping in his face. He brushes it aside impatiently. “Never,” he insists. “I liked Peg, might have loved her in a different life but I loved you. I _love_ you. You really think I couldn’t have tried harder to live back in the forties? I had coordinates, I coulda jumped and I might’ve survived-“

“You asshole,” Bucky hisses, his words belying his actions as he reaches for Steve. He’s up in Steve’s space in an instant, trembling as he fists the front of his shirt with his one hand, wanting to punch him and kiss him at the same time. “Don’t say that. Don’t _say_ that! How dare you- You deserve better than that, Stevie.” 

“So do you, pal,” Steve replies steadily, touching his forehead to Bucky’s. Bucky inhales sharply, closes his eyes. “Can I? I wanna-“

“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs even as he’s leaning into the kiss. He shudders at the rightness of it as his lips fit against Steve’s and he makes a noise low in his throat, wounded and wanting. Steve shushes him like a frightened animal, holds him close and doesn’t let him pull back. Bucky kisses Steve again and again and it somehow feels like he’s got a part of himself back, something he didn’t realise he was missing. 

_You’re mine_

“Steve, will you- Fuck, _fuck_ ,” Bucky’s losing his goddamn mind. Figuratively at least. He’s lying on his and Steve’s bed in Brooklyn, sheets soft against his back. However his attention is all on Steve who is on his knees between his legs, finger and thumb playing with his nipple in that way that makes Bucky’s back arch _just so_. It started in the kitchen twenty minutes or so ago, Steve coming back from his morning run to find Bucky sleep-rumpled and muzzy in the kitchen. He’d sidled up behind him, distracted Bucky from the cereal he was eating and it hadn’t taken much persuasion for Bucky to climb up him, legs wrapping around Steve as he carried him into the bedroom like he weighs nothing. 

Steve’s well aware of what a casual display of his strength does to Bucky.

Steve smirks at him and leans down, lips a hot wet heat as he kisses down Bucky’s stomach. Bucky squirms, thighs spreading further apart and Steve just _holds_ him there, making Bucky flush with a little bit of that 1930s modesty he has as Steve looks at him. Steve has a thing for his thighs, never fails to stop and stare when Bucky’s fighting Sam in the gym and gets him in a thigh hold.

“So pretty, Buck,” he murmurs, Brooklyn thick on his tongue. He sucks a mark onto Bucky’s hipbone and Bucky groans, hand snaking down to wrap in Steve’s hair. “Always have been so damn pretty.”

“Not so bad yourself, doll,” Bucky manages to get out, cock jerking on reflex as Steve licks a stripe up it. “Fuck- _Do something_.”

Steve hums as if he’s considering it before he shakes his head, kissing Bucky’s thighs instead. Bucky trembles as Steve sucks and bites at them until they’re all bruised up. Both of them know that the bruises won’t last but they love to see them, Bucky’s skin a perfect foil for the violet marks of Steve’s affection. “Ask me nicely,” Steve rumbles, nipping at Bucky’s thigh and making him jump.

“ _Please_ ,” Bucky pants, both of them drawn to Bucky’s cock as it drools wetly. “Want your mouth on me, baby. C’mon Stevie, want to feel those pretty lips of yours.”

Steve’s smile is a brand against his skin and he moves almost lazily, both of his hands coming to hold Bucky’s hips tightly. It's effortless and it makes Bucky's brain cloud with want at the idea of what damage those hands can wreak, how he keeps his strength so tightly coiled except around Bucky. “Thought you’d never ask.”

_Stay safe_

Bucky doesn’t go on missions much. He likes to lay low, hang around Brooklyn, spend time just living. His days are spent in and out of the local bodegas and shops, walking the streets of his childhood and marvelling at how different they are now. Nobody had wanted to live near the Navy Yard back then, too many fights occurring in back alleys - Steve contributed to a good many of them - and the constant clamour of noise from the building of ships making it an undesirable place to live. 

It’s different now. Bucky looks at the glossy photos of properties for sale as he walks past the shop window of a real estate agent, sees the prices for studios. He can’t help the low whistle of surprise in his throat. 

His pardon was granted a couple of years ago even though some still want to throw him in the Raft forever more. It had been touch and go for a while on whether they could prove to the judge and jury how damaged Bucky’s brain had been and therefore how truly culpable he was for the murders he had committed. Bucky had been terrified, gaunt and purple-eyed as he turned up to court every day with Steve standing sentinel by his side, the rest of the Avengers barely three steps behind them. Even Tony was there, for once tight-lipped in front of the press when they surged in asking for comments. 

Doctor Cho and Bruce had shown brain scans as evidence, from when he’d first arrived in Wakanda and since, the serum fixing most things without the chair to short-circuit him back into submission. His therapists gave evidence too of how Bucky was working with them on his trauma, never skipped an appointment even if he was having a bad day. Photos of the chair were shown. The cryo chamber too. Bucky couldn’t look at them without shaking. The book was _not_ used as evidence although it was mentioned. Bucky had burned it without ceremony once he was free of the triggers back in Wakanda. He still tenses if he hears one of the words but they’re unlikely to ever be repeated in that pattern again and even if they are, he knows he won’t break now.

He remembers the headlines. A few were vitriolic and hateful. People screamed that he was nothing more than a monster and needed to be put down. Or worse, that he should be used in the same manner. Working in the shadows on behalf of the government but this time conscious of the crimes he was committing. They had said that it was a fitting penance. Bucky had thrown up at the very idea, begging Steve to put a bullet in his brain if it came to that. 

The verdict had been almost anti-climactic after the months of arguing the same arguments, circling back and back again to whether Bucky was a monster or a victim. The sense of relief had made him sag, Steve somehow _there_ to catch him around the shoulders and haul him up. Bucky had tucked his face into Steve’s neck, long-ish hair covering his face as he cried like a child at their first knee-scrape. 

The back pay was staggering. Steve had assured him then that he’d get used to it but Bucky hasn’t. He doesn’t think it’s possible to get used to so much wealth and so he gives generous anonymous donations to charity. 

Bucky lives the life the way he never imagined he would - who could imagine living a century on? - but sometimes more hands are needed on missions. Bucky steps in then because he doesn’t trust another sniper to keep Steve safe and he attends the debrief with a blank face, dons his tac gear and prepares for the fight. A sense of calm descends as he arms himself, each knife and gun and grenade another layer of armour as he straps it into place. 

It’s a despotic dictator they’re taking down this time. He’s threatened to release some kind of nerve agent that would paralyse hundreds of thousands of people and they’ve got to get it destroyed safely. The situation is evolving even as they close in on the city in Ukraine and so it’s tense in the Quinjet, Steve firing off questions at Hill as they decipher the latest intel. Natasha is with them, pointing out weak points and thinking with what she calls her ‘despicable head’ on. Bucky thinks that if Natasha ever chose to turn villain, they’d all be screwed.

Two minutes from touchdown Steve comes over to him. He’s not wearing a helmet as Nomad, the dark blue suit stretching across his shoulders and emphasising how broad he is. Where Steve is restless energy, Bucky is deathly calm and he smiles at the difference.

“What are you smiling for?” Steve asks, quirking an eyebrow.

“Can’t help but think that you still look like that tow-headed kid, always looking for a fight,” he replies, chuckling. “You nervous?”

Steve pauses then nods. “Yeah. There’s a lot of kids in there,” he explains and Bucky reaches up to grasp his arm, squeezing lightly. “I’m not saying it’s easy when there’s adult casualties, you wish that there weren’t any, but that’s something we have to live with when we do this job. It’s just that it’s worse when it’s a child. All of us hate it. Puts me more on edge to take them out quicker, reduce the risk.”

“I know. I’ll be on your six though. You know what signal to give if you want me to shoot ahead,” Bucky says and he smiles into the kiss as Steve leans down, presses a determined but closed-mouth kiss against his own. 

“C’mon lover boys, we’re here,” Natasha says from nearby and they break apart, Bucky chuckling at the blush on Steve’s cheeks. They’re not one for any sort of PDA but it’s nice to be open in front of the team.

Steve turns away to head towards the opening ramp of the Quinjet and Bucky yanks on his arm to stop him. “What?” the blond yells over the sudden sound of rushing air in the plane.

“Parachute,” Bucky reminds him loudly, pointing to where the others are putting theirs on. “Non-fucking-negotiable, pal.”

_I’m sorry_

The mission is a success for the most part. Wanda managed to contain the gas and Tony’s fancy gas hoover worked and the threat is contained. Bucky’s realised that Tony has much more success with his inventions than Howard ever seemed to. Except for creating Captain America and Bucky sometimes wonders if that’s a sore spot for Tony or whether Iron Man is much more his speed. It seems as if the episode with Ulton cured Tony of trying to mess with sentient beings. 

There’s always goons though. Bucky doesn’t know why they _always_ fight back, even when they see the fight going south. Why the fuck don’t they just run and get out of the way? Especially when their leader is already down and out? He really hates shooting somebody with so little intelligence and so tries to incapacitate rather than kill.

He’s got a couple of bullets in his thigh, having not expected somebody to shoot - accurately - through a ceiling vent at him. He’ll be fine but he can’t deny that it hurts and he feels every jolt of the jet all the way to where it lands on the Tower. Sam is next to him checking his vitals and ensuring he’s okay. Steve is talking with Maria again, the angry clench of his jaw obvious to Bucky. 

Bucky didn’t notice somebody in the ceiling vent because he was focusing too much on Steve. There wasn’t somebody close enough to Bucky because Steve bolted down a corridor and Bucky was the only one who could match him for speed so he followed. They left their support team a little too far behind.

They both know it. 

Bucky isn’t delusional enough to think that they won’t discuss it later.

Loudly.

When they land, Bucky hops up to his feet, waves away the idea of a wheelchair or stretcher down to the medbay. He knows can hop-skip across to the elevator. He’s about to tell Sam that he can walk by himself when Steve catches up with him and Sam, wraps one arm under Bucky’s thighs and picks him up in a bridal carry.

“What the fuck, Rogers,” Bucky snaps, voice gravelly with pain. “You’re a giant pain in the ass.”

“Takes one to know one,” Steve retorts, voice equally tense. Bucky doesn’t ask him to put him down because he knows Steve won’t, slings an arm around Steve’s neck instead to keep himself more stable.

Sam wrinkles his nose at both of them. “Man, I do not need to know about your sex life,” he jokes, trying to lighten the mood and rolling his eyes when both of them stare at him without amusement. 

They walk down off the landing pad and Bucky sneaks a look at Steve, sees that there’s guilt in there as well as anger. He sighs and leans in, pressing his lips to the side of Steve’s head in a remarkably tender kiss. He feels Steve’s shoulders slump slightly in relief under his arm and he pinches at the side of his neck chidingly, presses another kiss to the same spot as before. 

“I’m okay,” he reassures him, voice low enough not to carry. “We’re both going to be okay.”

_I love you_

The day of their marriage goes off without much of a hitch. When you have the Avengers involved in your wedding planning, you have to allow for more of a degree of tolerance than usual. Everybody was on time and arrived in a non-obvious fashion; the wedding in City Hall was tiny and perfect and exactly what they wanted. Bucky’s been married in spirit if nothing else to Steve since 1930. It’s truly semantics at this point.

They’re all on the open rooftop at Bucky and Steve’s brownstone this evening, Etta James crooning out the lyrics to ‘At Last’ on the record player as the two of them dance to it. Steve still has two left feet most days but he’s trying tonight and Bucky’s serum means his toes won’t be broken for long. There’s fairy lights strung over the pergola and candles dotted around the place, their friends either sitting at the long, wooden table playing ill-advised drinking games now that dinner is over or - in Tony and Pepper’s case - dancing alongside them. It’s nice, Bucky thinks, in its normalcy.

“Never thought I’d have this,” Steve admits, startling Bucky out of his thoughts. 

“Thought you’d have what, sweetheart?” he asks, the endearment rolling easy and sweet off his tongue after some Asgardian liquor.

“This,” Steve gestures around at the roof. Their multitude of plants are thriving and happy in the pots that Steve painted, a veritable urban oasis with all the greenery. Bucky thinks they might just be hipsters. “You. After everything that’s happened, I wasn’t sure we’d get to be this happy.”

Bucky smiles, stops them so they’re doing nothing more than shuffling and wraps his arms around Steve’s neck, leaning in close. “We deserve to be happy,” he tells Steve, pressing the metal of his new ring against Steve’s neck meaningfully. “More than most, we deserve it.”

The kiss when it comes is an inevitability. Bucky hears the whoops and hollers of their friends as the two of them kiss on and on but he blocks it out, focuses instead on the way Steve feels against him, the itch of his beard, the fingers against his jaw, those plush lips against his own. It’s a dance of its own and Steve knows all the steps to this one.

When they pull back, Bucky grins widely. He knows he’s flushed and probably sweaty but he doesn’t care. Not when Steve’s looking at him like he wants to possess him mind, body and soul.

“Yeah, Stevie. I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [my tumblr](https://becassine.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
